He stood up and spoke more authoritatively.
“Suppose we don’t have any nonsense, Nicole.
Go and round up the children and we’ll start.”
In the car, with Dick driving, they followed the little promontories of the lake, catching the burn of light and water in the windshield, tunnelling through cascades of evergreen.
It was Dick’s car, a Renault so dwarfish that they all stuck out of it except the children, between whom Mademoiselle towered mastlike in the rear seat.
They knew every kilometer of the road—where they would smell the pine needles and the black stove smoke.
A high sun with a face traced on it beat fierce on the straw hats of the children.
Nicole was silent; Dick was uneasy at her straight hard gaze.
Often he felt lonely with her, and frequently she tired him with the short floods of personal revelations that she reserved exclusively for him,
“I’m like this—I’m more like that,” but this afternoon he would have been glad had she rattled on in staccato for a while and given him glimpses of her thoughts.
The situation was always most threatening when she backed up into herself and closed the doors behind her.
At Zug Mademoiselle got out and left them.
The Divers approached the Agiri Fair through a menagerie of mammoth steamrollers that made way for them.
Dick parked the car, and as Nicole looked at him without moving, he said:
“Come on, darl.”
Her lips drew apart into a sudden awful smile, and his belly quailed, but as if he hadn’t seen it he repeated:
“Come on. So the children can get out.”
“Oh, I’ll come all right,” she answered, tearing the words from some story spinning itself out inside her, too fast for him to grasp.
“Don’t worry about that.
I’ll come—”
“Then come.”
She turned from him as he walked beside her but the smile still flickered across her face, derisive and remote.
Only when Lanier spoke to her several times did she manage to fix her attention upon an object, a Punch-and-Judy show, and to orient herself by anchoring to it.
Dick tried to think what to do.
The dualism in his views of her— that of the husband, that of the psychiatrist—was increasingly paralyzing his faculties.
In these six years she had several times carried him over the line with her, disarming him by exciting emotional pity or by a flow of wit, fantastic and disassociated, so that only after the episode did he realize with the consciousness of his own relaxation from tension, that she had succeeded in getting a point against his better judgment.
A discussion with Topsy about the guignol—as to whether the Punch was the same Punch they had seen last year in Cannes—having been settled, the family walked along again between the booths under the open sky.
The women’s bonnets, perching over velvet vests, the bright, spreading skirts of many cantons, seemed demure against the blue and orange paint of the wagons and displays.
There was the sound of a whining, tinkling hootchy-kootchy show.
Nicole began to run very suddenly, so suddenly that for a moment Dick did not miss her. Far ahead he saw her yellow dress twisting through the crowd, an ochre stitch along the edge of reality and unreality, and started after her. Secretly she ran and secretly he followed.
As the hot afternoon went shrill and terrible with her flight he had forgotten the children; then he wheeled and ran back to them, drawing them this way and that by their arms, his eyes jumping from booth to booth.
“Madame,” he cried to a young woman behind a white lottery wheel,
“Est-ce que je peux laisser ces petits avec vous deux minutes?
C’est tres urgent—je vous donnerai dix francs.”
“Mais oui.”
He headed the children into the booth.
“Alors—restez avec cette gentille dame.”
“Oui, Dick.”
He darted off again but he had lost her; he circled the merry-go- round keeping up with it till he realized he was running beside it, staring always at the same horse.
He elbowed through the crowd in the buvette; then remembering a predilection of Nicole’s he snatched up an edge of a fortuneteller’s tent and peered within.
A droning voice greeted him:
“La septieme fille d’une septieme fille nee sur les rives du Nil—entrez, Monsieur—”
Dropping the flap he ran along toward where the plaisance terminated at the lake and a small ferris wheel revolved slowly against the sky.
There he found her.
She was alone in what was momentarily the top boat of the wheel, and as it descended he saw that she was laughing hilariously; he slunk back in the crowd, a crowd which, at the wheel’s next revolution, spotted the intensity of Nicole’s hysteria.
“Regardez-moi ca!”
“Regarde donc cette Anglaise!”
Down she dropped again—this time the wheel and its music were slowing and a dozen people were around her car, all of them impelled by the quality of her laughter to smile in sympathetic idiocy.
But when Nicole saw Dick her laughter died—she made a gesture of slipping by and away from him but he caught her arm and held it as they walked away.
“Why did you lose control of yourself like that?”